


Songs of the Seventh Age

by LooNEY_DAC



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, mixed metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:22:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC
Summary: Some songs fade, while others linger.But some songs can be sung anew.





	1. The First Sounding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts), [IdleLeaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/gifts).



The setting sun turned the Silent World to blood, its fading light yet strong enough to keep all but the greatest of the Twisted Ones at bay. The dying light fell upon a dying world, barely warming the one who had stood witness to days no other left on this Earth had lived through. While there had once been so many others, it had been long and longer still since their way had crossed, and he had to think they had found the grace to pass on, while he must linger still in endless refrain.

The lone figure on the high hill bit back a curse as his hand throbbed with particular fervor, a sour note in the melody of his life. It still hurt, after more years--more _ages_ \--than he cared to count. It would hurt as long as he lingered, and yet he had to linger on, the world passing by him in endless parade of shifting seasons; each new verse of Spring and Summer somehow dimmer than the last; each Winter so much the colder. And yet, within the heart of the Song, the Light remained.

Unbidden, his eyes sought out the bright and shining speck of Light that was the only thing yet visible through the dusk, and his hand throbbed anew. The Light was his only comfort now, even as it reminded him of all the sins for which he must still atone. This was why all his leitmotifs were long since melded into a dirge.

The Twisted Ones ignored him, for the most part, their dissonance yielding to his dirge. They could smell the oddness on him, and so they stayed away. He looked at the Evening Star again. Until it slipped below the horizon, its Light would keep them at bay as well, for they were creatures of the Shadow, and could not bear the Light.

Creatures of the Shadow could never bear that particular Light, for it was the unsullied Light of the Elder Days, after the Lamps but before the Sun and Moon, distilled from the Two into One Light, which was then poured into the Shiners Three. Of all the legions and hordes the Shadow had brought forth, only their Master, the One Who Shall Not Be Named, the Breaker of Harmony and Spoiler of Song, could endure their radiance, and only so that he might show the supremacy of Shadow over Light.

Yes, the Shiners had once been three, but no more. One had passed into the depths of the Earth; one rode high in the Heavens with the Mariner and his Wife. The third he had thrown into the hungry Sea with his own hands, but not before it had burned him. Such was the pain he carried to this very hour.

The Shiners were the work of his father, and after they were stolen his father, his brothers and he had all done deeds too dark and terrible to tell in order that the Shiners might be theirs. They had defied their kin, their gods, death, fate and all the world that the Shiners Three might return to their hands; the pain that tormented him now had shown him that by their deeds, they each had voided their right to possess the Light.

So he lingered on in pain and mourning, even to this day. He would linger still until the world itself was undone.

For now, however, night was coming, so he must find a hidey-hole to rest within...

*

For a moment, he did not know what had roused him; then, he felt it again, a flickering aura of power and fragility mixed together in endless paradox. It was brightest light and deepest darkness. It was ephemerality and eternity. It was unmistakeable, even after all this time.

There were Men nearby.

Why were they here? The last Men who had braved this part of the Silent World had fallen to the Twisted Ones in the span of but one night, and no Man had dared to venture hither since.

Their song was still strong; he felt it pulling forth a descant from him in response. Before he quite realized what he was doing, he had ventured forth from his shelter.

The blurred figure of a running youth briefly flashed across his vision. Yes, here was one who knew the power of Song. Now, if only the youth would pause to listen...

In the cold light of a Danish winter’s moon, Maglor, the last son of Fëanor, stepped forth to find the Finn.


	2. Finn, Go, Finn!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is to get all the Tolkien fans sort-of up-to-speed on Minna Sundberg’s masterpiece, the webcomic [Stand Still, Stay Silent](www.sssscomic.com). It therefore necessarily details things those in the SSSS fandom already are familiar with.
> 
> That I took the opportunity to make a bad pun in the chapter title should surprise no one when my authorship is revealed.

The scent of death lay heavily on the old city at night in quiet warning to any foolhardy enough to dare to risk its long empty streets. Within the slowly crumbling shells that had once been bustling buildings, _things_ lay in torpid semi-slumber, twisted things only waiting for the warmth of Spring to resume their hideous pseudo-life, or for an intruder to come too near and linger too long.

This was Copenhagen in the 90th winter after the Illness; this was the outpost of the Silent World.

Ninety years ago, the Illness had run through a world buzzing with life and vigor and turned it into a festering charnel house. In the only merciful part of the affair, ten of every twelve mammals (save only the Blessed Felines) died outright; one of the remaining two was immune; and one was Twisted into a creature of rage and hunger, but one that could remember what, or who, it once had been.

Some still begged for release even as they tried to kill you.

This had not been a “zombie apocalypse”; it had been so much worse.

Most of the immune had fallen prey to the rapacity of the Twisted; only those who had fled to a knot-hole they could defend against both the Brobdingnagian and the Lilliputian threats that now filled the world had survived.

The rest of the world was Silent.

The thin, grey-haired Finn shot across the land like a dart that could dodge, speeding across and around and sometimes over the debris of a world that had died 90 years before. If one of those who had lived then could have seen Lalli Hotakainen as he ran in an elegant parkour through the dead streets, they would have agreed that the lanky youth moving with such catlike grace was built for speed. That he was, and then some: he had not one unnecessary ounce on his spare frame. The hypothetical observer might have also noted the signs that the youth had never passed this way before, and wondered at it.

Lalli Hotakainen was far from home, and far from pleased about it.

When first the Illness had come, his forebears had been among those strong, lucky and paranoid enough to survive both the initial outbreak and the horrors that had followed; but their luck had eventually run out, and an eight-year-old Lalli had had to flee his birthplace with his ten-year-old cousin Tuuri and her sixteen-year-old brother, Onni to a stronger and safer place. That had been eleven years ago.

Now, four fools had come up with a wild plan to probe the verges of the Silent World, and Tuuri had leapt at their offer, dragooning Lalli into coming along as well. This insanity was why Lalli was out here at all: he was a night scout, so it was up to him to find a way for his little group of lunatics to enter the city that wouldn’t get them killed, and a safe spot for them to hunker down against the dire nights.

Cities were bad; anyone who lived in the shadow of the Silent World knew this, yet now Lalli was charged with guiding the four others on the expedition into the heart of one of the Great Old Cities _without_ getting them all killed. None of the organizing fools had been quite fool enough to come along themselves; no, they sought out other, even greater fools to be their proxies in this mad enterprise: a great blond bear whose ancestors had once lived and died in this land; a tall, loud madwoman from the loud, mad remnants of Norway; a short, sparkly-haired Swede (about whom more later); and Tuuri  & Lalli, the only Finns of the bunch and the only Fenno-phones.

The Lady Moon Kuutar favored Lalli with her radiance as he ran through the night; for this, he was properly grateful, as danger could be upon him at any second in this foreign land, and he needed any edge he could find to aid him on his way.

The land was murmuring a melody to him, and not an unfriendly one, but as yet he could not make out the rhythms of its song: he needed to spend more days learning its ways, seeking out its spirits, and wandering its warp and weft before the score would chorus its glory to him; but he had no time for that, as yet.

Winter spread its chill over the city; it was only this that kept the Twisted quiescent in their holes. Lalli could sense them, too, even as he sensed the land calling to him: where the land whispered, they screamed in their unending agony. There were so many of them; he would have said too many, but their course was set.

Lalli ran and ran through the dead city in the cold moonlight...


	3. III: Kindnesses Between Kindreds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things for which to apologize--the lateness of this chapter; the brevity of this chapter; the lateness of chapters to come…
> 
> All I can say is that I'm sorry, and I haven't given up on this, and I thank you for your patience.

The last of the Firstborn followed the Follower as the youth sped through the night.

It was a chase such as Maglor had not made in uncountable years; but he was determined that the youth should not have to face his task alone.

Maglor had been alone for a very long time indeed, hidden away on his island, for the Firstborn had all passed into the True West, or so he supposed; but, inevitably, the Followers came, and he hid, burrowing away from their eyes as though he were a Dwarf or an orc.

The Followers who had found his retreat bore the taint of Sauron about them: they worshipped the Machine, and Maglor would have taken them to be orcs themselves had he not known how the Followers had swept that twisted folk away in ages past.

And yet, despite their metal minds and restless devouring, when the Illness came, Maglor found that he could not help but come to their aid. Perhaps the thought lurked in the back of his mind that he might begin to atone for the Kinslaying; perhaps he merely hearkened to the distress of those among them who were yet innocent of anything but being born into a Machine Age.

He had come forth from his refuge, but almost too late. The Illness had wiped away all but a score of the Followers; but those that were left followed his lead. They trusted him to guide them through the nightmare their world had collapsed into.

He had failed them.

Sometimes, the memory of their screams still woke him when the night was black as pitch and the Twisted cried out around him. He had thought the camp secure, and when the Twisted struck, he had conquered; once the Twisted had fled from his sight, he had gone back only to find that the others--twenty Danes whose names he would carry on his heart for all eternity--had not, or not enough.

He had failed them, when they had put their trust in his “ancient wisdom”; after that, there had been no others left for him to fail.

He had thought that the Followers were gone for good, only to see them return with their machines in a valiant but futile effort to reclaim their homes. The machines had failed them; their valor had failed them; all they could do was run back across the bridge to their base.

He had lingered outside their camps long enough to hear that they had come from Bornholm; at the name, age-old memories had stirred: an old elven fastness; a circle of shining stones; a ward against evil. The ward had held fast when so much else had fallen apart.

Now, survivors from even further afield dared fare where their foes lay thickest; but these were not like their long-fathers, or not all of them were.

The Follower Maglor followed now was far more akin to those from the days when Firstborn and Follower lived together yet apart: this Man would have numbered among the Elf-Friends, had there been any Elves left in the world to befriend; so Maglor set off to offer the friendship of the last Elf in Middle-Earth, for whatever good that might do them.

They say hope springs eternal; Maglor found that it had not _quite_ deserted even him. Perhaps... Perhaps he might yet blot away the stain of his failure...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look. I mentioned stuff from [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8810722).


	4. IV: The Art of Not Being Seen

Lalli ran through the dead city in the cold moonlight as the night wore on. As he ran, he ran in the knowledge that he was being pursued, but that wasn’t what worried him. What worried him was that his pursuer was adept enough to evade all of Lalli’s attempts to catch even the smallest glimpse of their appearance.

The bright moonlight surrounding and guarding Lalli argued against his pursuer being a grossling, and Lalli had run more than long enough to leave any large uninfected carnivore in the dust of his wake; he had had to do so more than once on his runs around Keuruu, so he knew his pursuer could not be such.

Trying to get a handle on whatever was chasing Lalli was like trying to trap one of the moonbeams that spilled across the city around him; but what made it worse was the nagging sense of _familiarity_ about it, as though Lalli _ought_ to know perfectly well what was following him. Lalli hadn’t felt this confused and perplexed since...

And there it was. Lalli almost stopped dead when the realization hit, so great was its impact.

An Elf was after him.

His grandmother, Ensi Hotakainen, First of Mages, had known the Elves well in Saimaa; they had helped her find her way in those young years of the Rash-Twisted world. Not with her magic; that was her own, to work out on her own, and she mastered it on her own. No, this remnant of the Green-Elves who had wandered the forests since the world was new had seen in Ensi another creature of the forest, and the forest was what they had helped her to master.

When infant Lalli had undeniably shown her that he, too, was a creature of the forest, she had taken him to the Elves; they had rejoiced with her, but even then these last lingerers had had one foot out of the dying world, their long-postponed but soon forthcoming journey to the Undying Lands filling their hearts and ever tugging at their minds. They had only lingered for Grandma Ensi’s sake, but even that could hold them no longer; so were these final meetings tinged with melancholy, as fewer and fewer of Grandma’s oldest friends were to be found.

The last of the Elves had taken ship a year or more before Ensi’s Mistake had sent her grandchildren fleeing, but their touch still lingered on and in Lalli. This was how he knew what was following him now; once called back to mind, the sense of their presence, the _shiver_ in the world around them, was unmistakeable.

But what did the Elf want of Lalli? Was this a test, where Lalli must prove his worth before the Elf would deign to favor him with aid and wisdom? Was it a hunt, the Elf quite literally running mad after him in unhinged bloodlust? Or was it somewhere between those two extremes?

The easiest way to find out would be to come to a halt, but then the grosslings would seize the opportunity, moonlight or no; their torpor was still too fragile to be relied upon, and Lalli knew that, fast and silent as the chase had been, _things_ were ready to stir as soon as pursuer or pursued should falter. As long as they kept running, the Elf and the Man should be safe. At least, so Lalli hoped.

Lalli ran and ran through the dead city in the cold moonlight, contemplating what would be the least disastrous course of action...


	5. Duel or Duet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S NOT DEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep apologizing for how long these bits take to come together in my wretched mind, and then the next bit takes _even longer_ , after my futile promises to try to do better are long since discarded. Please know that I do mean it when I say that I dislike this state of affair, and wish it were otherwise most fervently.

Music.

Music was truly omnipresent. Every land; every tribe; every Age; every culture; every tongue; all had Music from the first to the last.

Music underlay all.

All That Is had originated as Music, a Great Theme begun by Eru Iluvatar and elaborated upon by the Ainur, and then another Great Theme seamlessly woven in and likewise elaborated upon, and then a Third Great Theme that while unelaborated yet encompassed all, until the Music formed a whole world and everything in it, from beginning to end: Arda, the World That Is.

When Eru Iluvatar had made His Children, He had given unto Music a new dimension. The Children of Iluvatar alone amongst all the wonders of Arda had the gift of Speech (which is why the Elves have always called themselves _Quendi_ , the Ones Who Speak), and Speech came into Music as Song. Just as Speech had a power beyond the simple calls of animals, so did Song have a power even beyond that of the Music that birthed it; even Men, the clumsy, half-blind Followers, knew this well.

Music, Speech and Song had changed the fate of nations in innumerable ways innumerable times over. Now, an Elf and a Man, Firstborn and Follower, but both creatures of the forest, faced each other in a clash of Songs upon which hung the fate of others—and, perhaps, that of the world itself.

Maglor had been a master of Song in all its forms and varieties since the Time of the Two Trees, though it had been long since he had Sung anything but a dirge. Now, his dirge Sang of the Rash-Tainted World, of an Age ended not by world-breaking upheavals of land and seas, but by Illness of body and soul alike, where Death was good fortune compared to the Twisting that granted those Men it afflicted the immortality they had so foolishly desired. Now, the Twisted suffered in lonely, pained bewilderment, ignorant even of who they had been before the Twisting. Maglor knew, even in his own small way, this torment, for it mirrored his own, though warped and magnified as the Rash warped and magnified the flesh it claimed.

All that was good in the world had already perished; now, it was time for the world itself to perish and be reborn, as the Valar had done long ago, and had foretold would be done again.

The Song of Lalli Hotakainen was far different. He Sang of loss as well, but of gain; of Light yet shining in the Darkness of the World; of hope rekindled; of Safe places hard-won and held against all the Rash had yet thrown at them. Where Maglor had spoken of Light dying, and the setting sun, Lalli Sang that they both might remember that the sun yet rose anew, and its Light yet scourged the Twisted as nothing else.

Lalli Sang of Song itself, and both of their Songs, and that even this clash of Songs proved that Good still lingered in this world, for even these Songs had Good and were Good.

Back and forth the contest of Song flowed, and it seemed that the world stopped and waited to see which would prevail, as all creation hung in the balance…


End file.
